


Locked Out (Well, In)

by coconutcluster



Series: Roman is Repressed and a Mess [1]
Category: Sanders Sides
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, anyway enjoy, hahaaa screw circadian rhythm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 07:04:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14711379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coconutcluster/pseuds/coconutcluster
Summary: I present to you: A Pre-Prinxiety [or simply Prinxiety] Locked Out fic(also sorta incorporated this post: https://glitz-glam-and-angst.tumblr.com/post/173841590821 by @glitz-glam-and-angst on tumblr)





	Locked Out (Well, In)

 It really wasn’t supposed to be a difficult day.

  Virgil had planned on just hanging out in the commons all day with his earbuds and  _maybe_  a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, a blissful and deserved rest after a week of Thomas performing his latest show. Virgil had been dragging himself around the scape for the last couple days in a wild haze as he worked overtime, pushing Thomas and falling back as the stage lights hit him with their burning gaze, and the rollercoaster of his job had all but exhausted his systems completely.

  He was tired, goddangit, and he just wanted a couple hours of uninterrupted Office bloopers.

  He’d almost gotten it, too; he’d made it all the way to the couch, propped his feet up on the arm and shoved his earbuds in. It was ten seconds into his video that he realized he’d forgotten his spoon. He should have just stayed on the stupid couch and moped, but he’d really wanted the ice cream (it was his favorite flavor and he was  _determined_ to eat it before the others got to it).

  And so he’d gotten up and shuffled to the kitchen - he’d silently reveled in the silence of the Mindscape as Logan and Patton had been filming something with Thomas, and Roman was off doing God knows what in his own little bubble. Virgil rifled through the kitchen drawer for the best spoon (it was rounded, more of a soup spoon than anything, and it provided optimal ice cream-scooping, from his own experience) when he heard a door slam harder than any wood should ever be able to handle; it resounded through the house and into the kitchen where Virgil stood stock-still, his hand still buried in a pile of cutlery.

  Looking back, that’s probably when he should have put his earbuds back in and just acted like the noise never happened; but of course he didn’t do that. Life would have been too easy.

  Instead, he’d walked gingerly across the carpeted floor and peered around the banister to the second floor, gripping his spoon like a sword, his knuckles white; the hallway looked to be empty. He let out a breath and turned back to the couch, eyes set on his laptop.

  That is, until he heard a faint slam further down the hallway again. It was a dull, a heavy thud on creaking wood, followed by a smaller thump as whatever hit the wall landed. Virgil could almost feel the impact with his own body.

  “…Roman?”

  The air hung thick and empty around him as he waited at the foot of the stairs. He raised his eyebrows and tiptoed up to the landing of the second floor, glancing down the hall expectantly; finally, a groan that sounded like it had been run through a laundry press and left to dry echoed towards him. He sighed. Of course Roman managed to get into trouble on his one off day.

  “Roman,” he said again, frowning as the house remained silent. He shifted the spoon still in his hand and set off to the end of the hall, striding towards the dark, curious impression of a door that seemed to swirl in its frame and around its hinges.

  The Imagination wasn’t really his thing, to be completely frank. It was cool, he guessed, but there were an awful lot of possibilities within the often-unpredictable landscape. Roman had explained it briefly to him before, during a rare instance where they got along for whatever suffocated amount of time: the Imagination was based purely around the thoughts of whoever was in it. Virgil’s stomach flipped at the idea of experiencing all his thoughts in 4D.

  And yet there he was now, practically running to the door as another low rumble escaped its odd galaxy-like premise. He grabbed the doorknob and stood for a minute, staring at the cool metal under his palm that sent pins and needles to his fingertips. He twisted and pushed the door open.

  The scene was set as a sunny meadow, decked in wildflowers and tall grass -  _there could be snakes in there_ , Virgil thought as he pulled at his hoodie strings,  _or badgers, or spiders_  - and surrounded in towering oak trees. In the middle of the clearing was Roman, his pristine outfit dusted with grass stains and dirt as he stared upwards at-

  “Oh, Jesus  _Christ_.” Virgil really should have stayed with his ice cream.

  Looming above the crouched prince and far over the treeline was a Dragon Witch - which appeared to Virgil to just be a  _literal effing dragon_  with a smoky blue aura around its claws and a much-too-tiny witch hat on its spiked, scaly head - that roared as soon as the door closed behind the anxious side, much to his chagrin. Its glowing eyes met his over the field for a split second.

  Roman’s head swiveled as he followed the dragon’s gaze, his own eyes widening at Virgil’s nearly-shaking figure next to the door. “What are you doing here?”

  Virgil didn’t take his gaze off the creature as he said, “I heard thudding- I just came to make sure you didn’t die or something-  _what are you doing_?!”

   “I’m  _trying_ to win a battle!” Roman scooted back a foot and looked around wildly. “…But I appear to have lost my sword.” The dragon roared again and swiped a smoking claw towards him. Virgil’s breath caught in this throat, but Roman just ducked and popped his head back up a moment later, rifling through the grass. “I just had it, where in the world…”

   “How do you lose a sword in the middle of battle?” Virgil cried across the field, pressing himself flat against the door and sinking to the ground, trying to hide beneath the sparse foliage. He heard Roman scoff.

  “Well, I wouldn’t expect you to understand the heat of combat-”

  “Yeah, because I’m not an idiot who fights monsters for fun!” Roman began shouting some snarky reply, but Virgil’s attention was caught by a sudden glint barely a foot away. He fumbled for it, his hand meeting smooth, warm wood. He pulled the object closer; it was a katana, glaring obnoxiously in the sun and into his eyes. “YOUR STUPID SWORD IS OVER HERE, MORON.”

  Roman’s incessant shouting stopped; Virgil peeked over the edge of the grass, spotting the prince yards away. He was standing perfectly still and watching the dragon, whose burning gaze was set directly on Virgil.

  “Virgil,” Roman said, his voice strained for monotony, “I need you to hand me my sword. Slowly,” he added as Virgil nodded. His whole body felt like ice as he ducked back down into the grass and started shuffling forward, chewing on his lip so hard he tasted copper and iron on his tongue. The dragon roared, louder than before, and it rung in his head and into his heart, shaking his bones; he resisted the urge to flatten himself to the ground, to stay there and keep his face in the dirt for eternity. His vision went blurred but he kept forward -  _one hand in front of the other, just one more, come on_ -

  It took him a minute to realize Roman was whispering it to him. His hand was outstretched to the anxious side and his eyes were trained on the creature above them, but Virgil could see his mouth moving as he muttered the words. Virgil swallowed and extended the sword towards Roman, leaning forward as far as he could without falling on his face, his eyes screwed shut as the Dragon Witch gave an impatient huff and started to lean down towards the pair.

  Roman bypassed the hilt of the katana and wrapped his fingers instead around Virgil’s wrist, tugging him forward. Virgil’s heartbeat filled his head as the fanciful side put a hand on his shoulder and whispered a soft, “Stay here, and stay low,” before pulling the sword from his trembling grip.

  Virgil pulled his hoodie tighter around himself and sunk to the ground with his eyes tightly shut, blocking out the roars and clashing of metal against scales in front of him; his heart was racing in his chest and blood rushed through his ears - he was too tired for this, his head like mud, his mind far from his body even as he dug his fingers into the ground and pulled at the grass, twisting it between his fingertips. He longed for his earbuds, there was so much  _noise_ , all around and him and on top of him and in-

  “Virgil!”

  His eyes snapped open.

  Roman kneeled in front of him, hands curled into uncertain fists that hovered over Virgil’s shoulders, his eyes wide. He swallowed with an audible click in his Adam’s apple. “Are you alright?”

  Virgil glanced to the side - there was no sign of the Dragon Witch, not even a stray scale littered across the ground. “Yeah,” he choked out. The last thing he wanted was a full-blown panic attack in the middle of the Imagination, with  _Roman_ , no less.

  Roman nodded curtly and stood with a cough, swiping at his uniform but missing all the stains. “Right, well… thank you for your help. I appreciate it.” Virgil frowned.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  Roman’s hand flew up to his temple and pulled away; he stared at the red on his fingertips, his lips pursed with distaste. “Oh, that’s- not ideal.” He cleared his throat again and offered his other hand to Virgil, pulling him up. “No worries, I’ll get it cleaned up in no time in the Mindscape.”

  Virgil tugged at the zipper of his hoodie, swiping the crumbled grass off his palms as he raised an eyebrow at the prince. “Why were you even fighting that thing?”

  “It’s a good way to let off steam,” Roman said after a moment, but he didn’t meet Virgil’s eyes and instead started towards the lone door at the edge of the meadow, his hands folded behind his back. “My apologies for interrupting… whatever it is you were doing.” Virgil snickered and Roman’s gaze met his curiously. “What?”

  “Just you,  _apologizing_. That’s rich.”

  Virgil meant it as a joke, but maybe he was a little stressed and it just came out sharper than he intended. Roman bristled. “Well. I suppose you can accompany yourself back to the Scape, then, if you’ll  _excuse_ me.” He stopped dead in his tracks and motioned for Virgil to continue as he turned back to the meadow.

  Virgil just furrowed his brow and stalked to the door, mumbling under his breath the whole way. He grabbed the knob and pulled.

  It didn’t budge.

  It didn’t even turn, just strained against the door frame with quiet protest. Virgil pulled harder in vain.

  “Princey, unlock the door!” he yelled, looking over his shoulder at Roman, who had stopped in the middle of the field and was now staring at him with knit eyebrows and a hand up to shield his eyes.

  “What are you talking about?” Roman started back towards him, his face set in a frustrated frown. “It’s always unlocked.”

   “Well, obviously not, because it won’t open.” Roman reached the door and waved him aside - Virgil scowled but complied.

   Roman fiddled with the knob and gave a sharp exhale when it remained stationary. “What did you do to it?”

  “What did  _I_ do to it?!” He crossed his arms at the prince with a burning glare. “Why am I the one who did something to it? What if you broke when you let yourself get thrown around by some oversized flamethrower bird?”

  Roman’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me? You came in last! And I didn’t  _let_ myself get thrown around by anything, I was in the middle of a battle, but of course you wouldn’t understand actually fighting something for once!”

  Virgil froze. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” Roman huffed, turning away from Virgil and kicking the door without much fire, “it doesn’t mean anything, just forget I said it.”

  “Right.” Virgil stared at the ground, biting his lip with a painful jolt - he forgot he’d cut it earlier - when he felt something cold hit his neck. He glanced up at the sky. It was dark, the sun all but disappearing completely behind charcoal clouds, and rain had begun falling almost immediately.

  Roman looked up as well. “Oh, for- would you not?”

  “Would I not what?”

  “Make it rain!” Virgil blinked at him. “The land is controlled by our thoughts, Little Miss  _Sunshine_.”

  Virgil looked back up, blinking rapidly as water droplets met his face. “How do you know it’s not your thoughts making it rain?”

  “I’m not exactly in a rain mood,” was all Roman muttered before sighing. “Well, I suppose we should find shelter until this malfunction ceases,” he said, nudging the door again with the toe of his boot. He headed towards the forest on the other side of the door without waiting for Virgil, who couldn’t help but feel that the ‘malfunction’ wasn’t the door.

  The trees provided a surprising amount of coverage - Virgil felt barely a drop as they trudged through the greenery in thick silence. With Roman a full five feet ahead of him, he was left to his own thoughts and the background buzz of rain dancing on the leaves above his head.

  He was plain  _tired_. His eyes were burning from lack of sleep, and he had once again returned to the hazy consciousness he’d known for the last week, feet dragging and arms snug across his chest as he shuffled behind the blurry white that was Roman’s figure. His mind was foggy, though he thanked whatever deity above for that fact alone; who knew what kind of creature his head would conjure with full clarity?

  The rain started falling harder.

  Roman paused and looked up through the intertwining branches, a scowl printed clearly across his face. “I suppose we should stay here until further notice, so we won’t risk getting lost should the scenery change as well.” He glanced back at Virgil with an unimpressed eyebrow quirked until he noticed the anxious side’s hunched shoulders. “Virgil?”

  Virgil opened his mouth, but he couldn’t find the energy to force words out. He just nodded.

  Roman watched him for a second, his eyes cloudy as he said, “You should sit down.”

  It took him a few seconds to carry the words through the wave of exhaustion in his head; it was only when the world started to tilt that he understood. He nodded again, bracing himself against a nearby tree. Roman seemed to wait until Virgil sunk down the trunk of the tree and onto the ground before leaning against a nearby oak himself.

  As his eyes started to fall shut, Virgil saw Roman pull the sleeves of his dirty uniform up and examine his arms with a frown. Then the world went dark.

  

  He awoke to the sound of thunder.

  Virgil’s eyes snapped open as it rang through the sky, which had only grown darker during his slumber, save for the bolts of lightning miles away. He could feel his hair matted to his forehead, slick and soaking wet; his hoodie had retained more moisture than what he would ever consider comfortable. It felt like lead on his shoulders, and it sent chills down his spine with every breeze.

  He looked up and saw Roman against the tree across from him; his head fell back against the trunk and his mouth was slightly open as he snored softly through the thunder. His jacket was bunched up into a ball behind him, sheltered from the heavy rainfall that now bypassed the canopy’s promise of security. The prince shifted as Virgil started coughing before he could stop it.

  Roman’s eyes flickered open. and he winced as he felt the rain hit his face. “…Virgil?”

  Virgil kept coughing - the air was heavy with a chill that racked his bones, and he pulled his hoodie tighter around himself. “Yeah,” he managed between choked breaths.

  He heard Roman stumble over to him, saw him kneel down and look into his eyes. Roman’s face was pinched with concern as he put a hand to Virgil’s forehead. “You’re on fire, Virge.”

  Virgil gave a weak smirk, “Aren’t I always?” Roman looked unamused.

  “Can you- oh,  _jeez_ , you’re soaked,” he muttered, pulling lightly at Virgil’s soiled hoodie. “Hold on, just-” he reached back, stretching for his jacket without leaving Virgil’s side. He smoothed it out and glanced at the anxious side. “Can you get your hoodie off?” Virgil frowned but pulled at the hem of his jacket, peeling the sleeves from his arms and letting it drop to the muddy forest floor.

  Roman flipped his own jacket around Virgil’s shoulders and fumbled with the buttons before standing up and glancing at the sky. “We need to check the door before this gets worse.” Virgil couldn’t tell if he meant the weather or his condition.

  Either way, the prince looked down at him, biting the inside of his cheek. “Can you walk?”

  Virgil braced his palms against the ground and tried to push up - his head spun and he sank back down before making it a foot. “M’sorry-” he started, but Roman just leaned down and pulled Virgil’s arm over his shoulder, lifting him bridal style without a second of hesitation. He grabbed the soaked hoodie and started walking back towards the meadow.

  “What’s on your arm?” Virgil asked, his voice hoarse. He’d noticed the creative side rubbing his arms earlier, but he only just realized what exactly he was rubbing at: letters were scrawled across his skin, clear and dark against Roman’s tan complexion.

  Roman tensed up beneath him. “It’s nothing.”

  “It doesn’t-“ Virgil turned away as another set of coughs racked his body. “-It doesn’t look like nothing.” He caught sight of a single word:  _moron_. “What are those?”

  “It’s not important-” Virgil shifted in Roman’s arms, just enough to see the rest of the markings.

  Words stained Roman’s skin from elbow to wrist, letters and phrases bleeding into each other in a fading spidery font:  _cringy he just seemed tired has he actually tried on any of these why do people like these you’ve done better just try harder god i hate this it’s okay but it could be better…_

  And there, right below his palm, was a word that stood out in midnight ink:  _moron_. It was darker than the others, like someone had just recently tattooed it onto his skin.

  “Roman,” Virgil said slowly, his eyes grazing the words for comprehension or context, “what’s all this? Did you-?”

  “Oh, heavens, no,” Roman said quickly, swallowing and averting his gaze from his own arm. “They- just appear. I don’t do it.”

  “What do they mean?”

  “They’re critiques,” he said simply. “Mostly from Thomas’ viewers, I suppose.”

  “Those are  _not_ critiques, Roman, that’s hate,” Virgil snapped, brushing his fingertips across the words. Roman winced and Virgil yanked his hand back to himself.

  “Sorry, they kinda burn for a little afterwards,” Roman muttered, ducking under a low-hanging tree branch in the pathway.

  Virgil stared at him dubiously. “After what?”

  Roman paused with bated breath. “I can make them fade,” he started carefully. “I usually fight… something - it varies from time to time, but I think it’s acts of bravery that make them disappear faster.” He took a deep breath and offered Virgil a feeble smile. “Ego boosters.”

  Virgil’s eyes fell back to the word under Roman’s hand, the inky  _moron_ , and he remembered his comment right after entering the Imagination: “ _Your stupid sword’s over here, moron!_ ”

  “Oh,” was all he could manage.

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” Roman insisted, shifting his arm to hide the markings.

  “You shouldn’t listen to that stuff.” Virgil waited for a reply, but Roman didn’t answer. “Do you actually listen to it?”

  “They just encourage me to keep working, for Thomas and his fans alike.”

  “No, they don’t,” Virgil said sharply, sighing as Roman glanced at him with widened eyes. “That’s not encouragement, Princey, they’re just bitter comments people make when they want to make someone feel worse than they do.”

  “You need to stop talking. You’re going to ruin your throat,” Roman said, his voice tight.

  “And it’s not fair that you get all of them, by the way. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Roman gave a bitter chuckle. “What?”

  Roman didn’t respond, just stared ahead as they approached the gap in the treeline ahead. Virgil didn’t push, but he made a mental note to finish the conversation later, when he could talk without hacking up a lung.

  He went to say such, but Roman cut him off; he glanced up at the sky as they reached the clearing, a sudden, tiny smile pulling at his lips. “The rain stopped,” he said quietly. Virgil followed his gaze.

  The sky was full of stars, clear as crystals, as if the clouds had never invaded in the first place. The moon was absent in the twilight and the horizon was painted in shades of gold and indigo, silhouetting the trees at the rim of the meadow. The air was filled with soft chirping as birds found their way into the night.

  Virgil raised his eyebrows. “Wowee.”

  And Roman laughed, a full sound that Virgil usually found too loud or overly obnoxious, but he was pressed against the prince’s chest and the noise practically traveled to his fingertips, which were wrapped behind Roman’s neck - it was infectious. Virgil smiled.

  His throat burned suddenly, a harsh reminder of the reality - or lack thereof - of the landscape and its hellish weather. He tried to suffocate the cough that threatened the moment, but Roman had already noticed his sudden silence.

  “We should probably get you back to the Scape,” he said quietly, moving towards the standalone door in front of them. Virgil half wished the door stayed locked.

   But it swung open as soon as Roman put a hand to the knob - they both stared for a full minute, as if they expected a monster to pop out as soon as they walked through.

  “Huh,” Virgil said drily. “Was it unlocked this whole time?”

  “I… don’t believe so,” Roman said, examining the doorjamb around Virgil’s figure, still cradled in his arms. “We checked it rather thoroughly earlier.”

  “We-” Virgil stopped, realization dawning on him. “We checked it earlier. While we were arguing.”

  Roman stared ahead with furrowed eyebrows. “You believe us fighting locked the door?”

  “I mean, it’s possible - isn’t this whole place based on our feelings?”

  There was a pause as Roman glanced at the sunset behind the trees with a clouded expression. “I- I suppose you’re right.” He hummed in response to himself, another small smile on his face. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  “…Are we going to leave. or do you plan on just standing in the doorway forever?”

  Roman jumped. “Right, eh, sorry.” He stepped through and closed the door gently behind them, glancing down the hall. “Can you walk a little yet?”

  Virgil huffed his bangs out his eyes and nodded, biting his chapped lip as Roman lowered his feet to the floor. His legs still shook, but Roman’s arm was snaked around his waist to keep him standing, so he started forward nonetheless; his chest was tight and his head was steadily growing foggy all over again. Curse his cowardly immune system.

   Well, Thomas should have fun with it in the morning.

   They finally made it down the stairs and to the couch where Virgil’s ice cream sat, forlornly abandoned and thoroughly melted, right next to his now-dead phone. Lovely. Everything he had planned for the day, all ruined.

  He glanced at Roman - the prince’s eyes were set determinedly on the couch, the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips as he supported Virgil’s steps forward.

  Maybe it hadn’t  _all_  been ruined.

  He collapsed onto the cushions as Roman let him go at last - he realized with a start that he still had on the white jacket, and his hoodie was in Roman’s hands. Roman followed his eyes and stared at it. “Oh. Do you want this back- I can take my jacket, if you-”

  “Nah, screw off, I’m keeping it,” Virgil said, pulling the princely garment tighter around himself. Roman raised an eyebrow. “What? Mine’s wet.”

  “Right.” Roman glanced around and sighed. “Well, perhaps you should rest until Patton returns - he is quite the medicinal connoisseur. Is there anything you need until then?”

  “A million dollars would be awesome,” Virgil said, waving a hand lazily through the air. “A bigger house, a dog or two, maybe some wine-”

  “You don’t even like wine.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Mmhmm. Well, if that’s it,” Roman squinted at nothing in particular, “ _I’m_ off to sleep as well.”

  “It’s, like, five o’clock,” Virgil scoffed, leaning against the armrest too heavily to simply be a casual gesture, his eyebrows raised.

  “Can’t hear you,” the fanciful side called over his shoulder in a singsong voice, “I’m sleeeeping.”

  “Night, Princey,” Virgil chuckled. watching him walk to the stairs, his own eyes drooping but bright.

  Roman smiled. “Goodnight, Virgil.”

  It occurred to Virgil to put the ruined ice cream up before Patton and Logan returned - they’d both chew him out when they saw it staining the coffee table - but the lilting melody of a familiar Disney theme that he couldn’t quite name floated down to his ears, bringing a soft smile to his face as his eyes fell shut.


End file.
